Perhaps we can look forward to more of this type of completely random insanity during Super Bowl XL.
I certainly hope so. Because nothing says "smashmouth football" like interpretive dancing, pink fireworks and giant, inflatable, vaugely Rastafarian...things.
Oh, and the Rolling Stones.
Actually, I'm fine with the Stones. Despite the fact that a British rock band is only tangentially related to American football in that they've, you know, actually used the word "football" and, um, they sometimes play in football stadiums. But hey, I guess they figure we've all already seen Mick Jagger's and Keith Richards's exposed breasts so the FCC won't get their shorts in a bunch over any "wardrobe malfunctions." I don't understand why, personally, as geriatric nekkidness of the formaldehyde and Jack Daniels-preserved variety is undoubtedly far more damaging to the children and, you know, my eyesight, than exposed silicone. But I don't make the rules.
And I also happen to think The Stones still rock, so just ignore me.
As for the actual game, I'll be watching with Steelers fans who are, shall we say, insane. Since I've watched the past two Steelers playoff games on their couch, they're refusing to let me wear different clothes, bring different food or sit in a different location for the actual Super Bowl. They are, however, apparently fine with the fact that I'll actually be rooting for the Seahawks.
I did waffle on my decision a bit as to where to view the game. Traditionally, Super Bowl Sunday is spent at my parents' house in New Hampshire, taping up the Adam Vinatieri Papa Gino's posters (shut up, you know you want one), making the eight gallons of chili and readying the spiral ham for the football hungry masses. But with the Pats notably absent from the big game this year (shame, that), I wasn't sure if I wanted to make the trek for a few hours. And when I mentioned to said Steelers fans that I didn't know where I planned to watch the game, I swear to you, I thought they were going to hog tie me to their couch or stab me with a pretzel stick to prevent me from leaving.
So the Super Bowl with Steelers fans it is. But, to keep my Pats fandom on the straight and narrow, I will give you a list of things I will and won't be doing during the big game.
* Cheer for every Seahawks touchdown, field goal or exceptional defensive play.
* Smile whenever someone mentions the Patriots and their dynasty (don't you freakin' argue with me!)
* Eat an irresponsible amount of taco and artichoke dip.
* Make fun of Ben Roethlisberger's facial hair.
* Call Roethlisberger "The Hamburgler" on every possible occasion.
* Clap whenever it's noted that Hasselbeck is from the Boston area.
* Roll my eyes at the goddamn Terrible Towels.
I will not:
* Stop calling Bill Cowher "The Chin That Ate Pittsburgh."
* Openly cheer for the Steelers.
* Get up off my assigned spot on the couch, apparently.
* Wave, touch, or hold a Terrible Towel.
* Take Joey Porter seriously.
* Provoke Sebastian as he will not hesitate to kick me down the five flights of stairs leading into his apartment.
And honestly, I understand. While I worry that he will actually have a heart attack before kickoff on Sunday, I've been there, and I can sympathize. Last year, I nearly destroyed a very expensive, big screen television with a half-inflated football. If my aim were better, I would have owed my dad a lot of money. So I get Super Bowl stress. I feel them.
However, it'll be interesting to watch the game as an impartial observer. Okay, not entirely impartial, but let's just say I won't be flipping over cars and setting them on fire no matter who wins. I wouldn't have said the same thing if Indy had made it. But with Peyton Marino at the helm, that was never really a legitimate fear.
So I'll watch, and I'll drink, and I'll eat dip. And I'll hope my friends end up happy while still wanting the Seahawks to get a Lombardi trophy for Boston boy Hasselbeck. But in the end, this time, the Super Bowl really is just a game. Hmmm, I'm not so sure I like this.